


Convalescence

by healfriend



Category: Alita: Battle Angel (2019)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 22:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20053489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/healfriend/pseuds/healfriend
Summary: For the youth of Iron City, Motorball is inescapable; some hold professional aspirations, hoping one day to hear their names carried aloft as the revered Final Champion, while most approach the game as a form of social recreation, where friendships are hard-forged and scores oft-forgotten.You arrive at the usual spot with the usual expectations: Alita will win, you will make a fool of yourself, your friends will make sure you know it, and the drinks afterwards will make it all worthwhile. But when a shot from the blue leaves you on the brink of death, you find strange solace in the arms of the one who brought you there.





	1. Chapter 1

There is something different about street Motorball by night. Even without the roaring crowds and glitzy lighting of the stadium, it always feels more authentic to the pro game, like you really are playing out your own lower league in miniature. The daytime variant, by comparison, lays the truth of the thing a bit too bare: scrap urchins passing wasted time by clobbering the brains out of one another for cheap thrills. A pointless distinction, maybe, but you were always good at wielding artifice to your own ends—a fine skill in such a hopeless city.

You and seven others are gathered in the old water canal south of Factory 33, dank and mossy and absolutely perfect for some serious Motorball action. Three of them—Saku, Vela, and Greaser—are old friends of yours, and can be trusted to play the game straight-up. Two are unknowns; always a concern. One is an aspiring Motorball player named Eiserne whom you've rolled with a few times in the past; a sweetheart off the track, she has a tendency to lose herself on it. And there is, of course, Alita, likewise and then some.

The ramps are set, the scoring mortar hastily affixed to a concrete column, and soon enough you find yourself strapping in to your equipment when Alita approaches, a twinge of worry tugging at her brow. She always does this.

"Make sure everything's on tight, okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"Remember not to stay behind Vela for too long or she'll get you with that quick feint."

"I'll be fine."

"And be careful around the third bend, it gets really narro-"

You put your hands on her shoulders and give her a quick kiss on the forehead. She shivers, taken aback, before coming to her senses with a sensual bite of the lip.

"Let's just have some fun, alright?"

You line up furthest outside, next to one of the unknowns. You take quick inventory: he's a younger sort, not yet twenty if you had to bet, but built like a Hunter Warrior and with a murderous gaze to match. Of particular note is the cybernetic right hand you suspect will soon be set on ending your night early. Greaser starts the game with a shout, the Motorball is sent flying, and you duck down just quickly enough to avoid eating a haymaker. You've won this opening exchange, but you think better of laughing.

Soon enough, Alita scoops the ball from the slick surface and cuts clean through the first turn, well out in front. Though still working her way through the lower leagues, she's the only pro of your group and typically controls the pace. Eiserne, not yet a pro and rather sour over it, drops stance and rounds wide to build speed, looking as always to score one good hit on Alita. No worries, you think—she never does.

You can't claim to have much of a knack for the game and are content to score a few clean grinds off the center highrail while staying clear of your increasingly-frustrated starting mate, all muscle and much too slow to contend. Sailing smooth out of the final corner, you ready yourself for another attack on the rail when you see them: Alita and Eiserne are storming back down the far half of the canal, fighting furiously and rapidly closing in. 

Something isn't right. Eiserne leads with the ball, wearing a sickening mask of crimson; blood is flowing from every inch of her face and soaking down deep into her collar. Alita, left arm locked in a gruesome bend, swings high up the sideslope and has a feral look in her eyes that strikes your heart cold; you've seen that visage only a few times before, and it always ended with someone getting hurt. Or worse. You land hard on the highrail, nearly losing your balance in the process, just as Alita charges back down into the canal with terrifying speed straight towards Eiserne. And yourself, incidentally.

There isn't time to think. You try to call out a warning to Eiserne, though you manage little more than a guttural yelp. For the briefest moment you wonder if she even noticed, until she smashes the Motorball into the concrete below with such force that it launches her skyward in a twirl. For an eternity she hangs there, pirouetting across the night sky, neon lights of towers far above shimmering against the red veil—a pro's maneuver.

You only see Alita long enough to register the contortion of fear taking shape on her face as she launches bodily through the shadow of Eiserne, a fraction of a second before you collide. She twists sharply in midair, but to no avail; her shoulder drives deep into the side of your chest with a sickening crack and sends you flying from your perch. Time slows again, colors meld together, and your last conscious thought manifests as a pair of grim realizations: that you have been quite seriously injured, and that Alita was going to blame herself for it. Landing face first on the concrete below, your vision snaps black.


	2. Chapter 2

A dark vista of Iron City sprawls before you, fuzzy and intangible, edges frayed by the imposition of death. Upon a rooftop sits a cloaked figure with knees held fast in embrace, as a lonesome child would do. You observe this silent scene without the slightest hint of lucidity. The figure, a girl it seems, begins to cry, the city beyond rising and falling with her shoulders in perfect synchronicity.

And then it's gone. The rooftop fades and the city turns to dust, scattering skyward for a moment before settling into a starfield. The girl turns to face you. Or perhaps she doesn't. You never could say where a dream ends.

***

When you finally come to, she's there. Shirt caked with dry red blood, hair matted by grime and sweat, cheeks stained with tears—but so achingly there. As you crane your neck to meet her gaze, you expect her to explode with relief, perhaps give you one of those great big hugs you so enjoyed. But instead, she takes a single clipped breath and screws her face up horribly, fighting back a torrent of tears that quickly overwhelm her.

"I'm sorry...I'm...I..."

Her voice fades, still mouthing the words. You force a weak smile and reach out to comfort her, only to feel hot daggers drive deep into your side. The pain is unlike anything you've ever felt, and a bloodcurdling cry escapes your lips.

"Don't move! Please don't move!"

Alita is upon you in an instant with hands outstretched, hovering just out of touch with your body. The sorrow has been forced back, if only for a moment, by a wave of terror and adrenaline.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Doctor Ido rush into the room. After a pause, he breaks into a brisk approach with rage and fatigue filling out his features in equal measure.

"Unless you want to leave this clinic a cyborg, you'll stay right where you are. Understood?"

Still gritting your teeth in agony, you ignore his question with one of your own. A flicker of dread finds life somewhere deep inside you, black as death.

"What's the damage?"

"Broken. Broken everything: broken ribs, broken collarbone, broken arm, shattered orbital, fractured vertebrae, punctured lung...ligament damage, tissue damage, concussion, significant loss of blood...you could have died tonight."

He traces his finger across a monitor and shakes his head with a deep sigh.

"Should have, really."

It was a strange thing to fixate on, but...tonight? You had quite understandably lost track of time, but surely it was now morning; the old canal was nowhere near Ido's clinic—clear on the other side of Iron City, in fact—and fighting through traffic took hours on a good day. Surgery, of course, must have taken a few hours more, considering how extensive—

And then the flicker of dread becomes a raging inferno, and all other thoughts vanish like smoke.

Perhaps the sedatives were beginning to wane, or perhaps you had been so focused on Alita that you had forgotten yourself. Whatever the case may be, you're gripped by surging panic as feeling begins to return to your shattered body. Recalling Ido's words, you take gruesome inventory.

You slowly touch a finger to your face and quickly recoil in pain, skin shredded by the unforgiving canal concrete. You try to move your other arm, but receive no response. A quick peek down ends in agony as the cracked vertebrae announces itself. Even the slightest shift in weight sends a miserable lashing across the upper torso where your clavicle lies in ruin. You are immobile. And it terrifies you.

Fear quickens your breathing, and your breathing feeds the torturous fire burning white-hot at your side. Alita's face at the moment of impact flashes across your mind's eye. Fear.

Three figures enter the room and do you the mercy of turning your attention outward. Saku and Vela are first, both deathly pale as they scramble to your bedside. Following cautiously behind them is a slender girl you recognize as the final unknown racer, clearly concerned but content to hover in the background. Even the squeamish Greaser is there, peeking out beyond the door frame between bouts of retching.

For a good long while, only the machines speak. Time enough to summon forth whatever wit you have left.

"Expecting a corpse?"

The tension slacks, if only a touch. Unsurprisingly, it's Saku who finds his voice first; he was the chatterbox of the group and never failed to drive you up a wall.

"Kinda was, man. What the hell happened?"

It's a difficult question, and judging by the room's silence only Alita knows the truth. She stares at the floor, utterly crestfallen. You briefly consider pinning the blame on your muscle-bound starting mate, but knowing Saku and Vela they'd have him lying half-dead in an alleyway by sunrise. You didn't much care for the brute, but he did nothing to warrant a visitation of violence. So you take the easy way out and feign ignorance, claiming to have simply spilled off the highrail yourself. Saku shakes his head and, as always, makes things worse.

"No chance; I think your brain's playin' tricks. You were pulped out there, man, just pulped."

He scratches his chin in thought before setting a finger wagging in idiot's revelation.

"That cyberhand meatball son of a bitch must have taken you out when you weren't lookin'."

You begin to sound a protest, but Vela's words stop you cold.

"Saku's right; you were brutalized. If Alita hadn't been there to carry you back, you would have died in transit. We only just arrived."

Not giving a damn about the pain, you prop yourself up and look towards Alita, her head still tucked low in guilt. A thought crosses your mind that now seems so obvious: the blood drenching her shirt had belonged to you.

In an instant, all the pieces fall into place. You think back to your dream following the accident, with the crying girl and the Iron City rooftops, and realize you had been half-awake. Your heart swells and you shout out with no certain purpose.

"Alita!"

She looks up, grief-reddened eyes thrown wide with surprise. Tears fill your own as you give her the purest smile of your life before the pain returns tenfold. Through ringing ears you hear the monitors sound alarm, and Doctor Ido's needle ends your long night.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep, though dreamless, provides a welcome reprieve.

You awaken to the warmth of the early morning sun, shining gold through an open balcony door. Feeling an inexplicable rush of bravery, you slide your legs off the surgical bed with due care and rise to your feet, straining to keep your ravaged upper body as stable as possible. The pain is still immense, but robbed of its sharpness by Ido's drug cocktail.

You take a cautious step forward. Satisfied your legs are, in fact, working properly, you take another, then another, and before long you've made your way to the middle of the room where the cool dawn breeze is strongest. Though tempted to take a deep, invigorating breath, you think better of it.

A few steps further now, towards the balcony and away from the damned medical instruments. Eyes still adjusting to the glare of a brilliant Iron City sunrise, a figure begins to take shape near the rusted parapet. Moving with absolute precision through the practice forms of Panzer Kunst, she is unmistakable.

You once learned the hard way not to approach Alita from behind without first announcing yourself; the last thing you need right now is another broken appendage.

"I hope you got a little sleep, at least."

She remains silent for a spell as her hands glide between stances, cutting the dawn. The realization strikes you a moment too late: this particular exercise isn't martial, it's meditative—and your presence isn't helping. Her voice, unlike her body, is weak and unsteady.

"You should be in bed."

Strength fading slightly and feeling a bit guilty yourself, you nevertheless make your way out onto the balcony proper as Alita does her best to avoid eye contact. The din of the market won't rise for another hour or so, and you take the time to appreciate the haunting melody of the Badlands wind whistling through Iron City. It's a peaceful scene you revel in for as long as you can.

Alita continues working through the forms next to you, and you can't help but notice her intensity rise as her precision falls. Crisp punches become wild flails and spry steps become furious stomps that leave cracks in the tiling. Grunts of exertion accompany every violent motion.

"That's enough. Look at me."

At last she does, face full to bursting with raw misery. You manage a tired smile and hope like hell you look better than you feel.

"If I'm going to get this body back in working order, I'm going to need your help more than ever before. And breaking this balcony out from underneath us would be a terrible way to start."

Somehow, that was all it took. With pressed lips and a resolute nod her guilt dies, snuffed out by a deeper instinct—and nothing more need be said.

The two of you enjoy the sounds of the waking city for a good while longer before gnawing fatigue sets you swaying and Alita insists on a return to bed. Catching you by surprise back inside is the omnipresent Doctor Ido, sitting cross-legged near the medical instruments with a half-eaten apple in hand. How long has he been there? You brace yourself for a scolding, but he simply motions to a breakfast tray nearby while taking another bite. Among all the sensations there isn't much room for appetite, but Vela never let you forget the importance of proper nutrition. Surely that goes double with a shattered everything.

You gingerly crawl back into bed and prop yourself up at an angle as Alita fetches the tray. You reach out with you good arm to receive it, but she just shakes her head.

"Alita. I can feed myself."

Scarcely does the last word escape your mouth when she softly presses a finger to your lips and leans in close.

"These hands are yours."

Under any other circumstance it would have been sensual, but these were words of comfort and security more so than romance. Nevertheless, it's enough to elicit a raised eyebrow from Ido; he quickly finishes his apple before making some flimsy excuse to leave. He turns at the door and you swear there's a hint of a smile breaking through.

"There's nothing left to do but to let the healing process take its course. In this, Alita will be of much more use to you than I."

You wave him off just as a spoon appears beneath your nose, laden with a sickly-colored soup that smells only faintly edible. Ido wasn't a terrible cook by any means, so you convince yourself of the soup's nutritional value and open wide. Unsurprisingly, it tastes every bit as miserable as it looks; you twist your face so severely in disgust that the wounded skin upon your nose cries out in painful reprimand. Alita gives you an apologetic look and sets the spoon back on the tray.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

A flash of inspiration alights in her eyes, and she suddenly takes off for the balcony.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

She vaults over the parapet and disappears from view before you can even choke down the first rotten spoonful.

For the first time since the accident, you are alone, and before you know it the black dread once again grips your heart firm. With a quaking hand you shovel a heap of vile soup down your throat and try like hell to convince yourself that's what's digging the pit in your stomach, but you know the truth. Solitude has a way of exposing the soul's vulnerabilities.

Panic encroaches as the walls do. Another dose of soup sets you retching but does little to break the episode. So you do the only thing that makes sense at the moment and picture Alita, scampering wild through the morning market in search of something to cheer you up. Weaving in and out of, and sometimes even over, the dense crowd, she wears a look of steely determination, stopping only once at a confectioner's stall to grab a bar of chocolate for herself, of course.

It's a cheap trick that works beautifully, and you've calmed yourself almost entirely by the time Alita touches back down on the balcony. She tries to hold a striking pose, but particulates kicked up from the damaged tiling forces an adorable sneeze. You can't help but laugh, even through the pain it causes.

She glides across the room to your bedside with two great big somethings tucked beneath either arm.

"Uh oh. What've you brought me?"

Plastic wrapping crinkles as she removes an enormous glazed loaf from its packaging. With an impish grin, she holds it out before you.

"Honeybread! I told the shopkeep what happened, and he gave me the second one for free!"

"Honeybread, huh...well, with a name like that..."

Again you reach out, and again Alita denies you, pulling the loaf back beyond your grasp. Her eyes chide.

"Alright, alright, I got it. Your hands are mine."

A grin of a different color crosses her face now, and her voice drops to a near-whisper.

"That's better."

She breaks off a piece of honeybread rind and slowly places it in your mouth, hand lingering.

You swear you've never tasted anything sweeter.


	4. Chapter 4

There are good days and there are bad days, and after a while the two fuse together into a single bright thread as time loses what little meaning it had in Iron City. Life is reduced to struggle with only two constants. Pain is one, of course, always waning but never far from mind.

The other sits perched in your windowsill on a stormy Tuesday morning, soaked to the bone—as the saying goes. A thunderclap rouses you dead tired from another night of half-sleep; even after weeks of healing, you could rarely fight a full eight hours through the aches. Cursing their persistence, you fling your covers aside and rise from bed a bit quicker and a bit surer than yesterday.

Alita drops down into your room with a sodden thud, big grey Motorball bag slung loose around her shoulder. The dour expression on her face warms up in an instant when your eyes meet, though a tinge of disappointment lurks beyond the cheer.

"Lousy weather, huh? I was really hoping we could meet up with everyone at the plaza course, but...I don't know if it's such a good idea in this downpour."

"And yet, you brought all the gear."

She unzips the bag and there it is, as requested: full Motorball regalia for two, plus a few extra pads she must have intended for you. Saku's mocking voice fills your head, but you were never one to care about appearances on the track. Besides, you doubt even he would be so uncouth considering you had near enough died last time.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't let a little rain spoil your big comeback."

"I'll be fine, seriously. It's just going to be the five of us, for starters."

"Six, actually."

You pour yourself a cup of yesterday's stale coffee and toss it in the microwave; it seems you'll be needing an extra shot of energy today.

"Really? I'm surprised Eiserne could find the time. Isn't her third match tonight?"

"Fourth, and still perfect."

There's a competitive edge now to Alita's voice you find absolutely adorable. She sets the gear bag aside and takes a seat on the sofa, faint pout now puffing up her cheeks. You think better of teasing.

A pitiful beep registers from the microwave, itself no stranger to the specter of death. You had been planning to replace it before the accident, but now you couldn't bear the thought. Kinship with an appliance—you blame the concussion and grab the coffee.

"Well, she'll be up against it this time; it's No Rules Tuesday, after all!"

"You know that's not real, right?"

You laugh and nearly spit out your coffee, which would be just as well considering you've never had worse. Alita throws a pad at you from across the room that impacts harmlessly against your thigh. Playfully feigning injury, you join her on the sofa where she wastes no time snuggling up against you, warm and impossibly dry. There's still a hesitation in her contact, like she's handling the fine porcelains down in Market District without a credit to her name. You're hoping a good Motorball display will convince her of your health.

Rain makes for fine drama, anyway.

***

"Just a peach of a day, ain't it? Oh, you sure know how to pick 'em!"

Bandana flapping in the gale, Saku pokes his head out from the cover of the cafe as you and Alita pass under the bridge approaching the plaza. Somehow the sky had opened up even further since leaving your apartment; rain lashes your skin as it rides whipping winds down Iron City's corridors. Try as you might, you can't manage to come up with anything resembling a retort before Alita drags you along. Another point for Saku, and his face tells you he knows it.

The rest of the crew is up ahead, putting the finishing touches on a very wet Motorball course. There's Vela, casting a venomous look in the cafe's direction, and Greaser, carrying a fifty-pound rail block like you would a bag of potatoes, and...

You freeze. Alita glances back and forth with obvious concern before putting the pieces together.

"That's right. You haven't seen Eiserne since..."

"...since she went full-body. Huh."

It's all very obvious — how else could she have become a pro player? — but you can't deny feeling a subtle pang of horror when gazing upon her sleek new cybernetic form. You knew people who had undergone the procedure after massive physical trauma necessitated it, but to voluntarily throw your body away over a game? Over anything?

Alita tugs you forward again, this time hard enough to send pain rocketing up your arm from the tender elbow ligaments that still begged for a few more days of healing. That was unlike her, you think, and then you realize you had been staring. And Eiserne had been staring back.

"Not bad work, yeah? Vela sourced the body and Cavasso over on 34th did the job for a cut of this year's winnings. He was always sweet on me."

"Cavasso? Not Ido?"

She gives you a strained look like you'd just asked a damned stupid question, which you had.

"You think Doc of all people would spin me a total-replacement over Motorball? Sure that head of yours is set straight?"

"Not entirely, no."

A chill begins to set in as the three of you join Saku in the nearby cafe. Greaser waves off your invitation and tweaks the ramps this way and that until he has them right back where they started. Strange guy, but he had a knack of getting it just right even if it took him twice as long.

Aside from your group, the cafe is well enough abandoned. The barman lounges back by the drinks with his feet kicked up and a newspaper to pass the time, grasped by a cheap-looking cybernetic hand short a few fingers. Sitting in a crooked lean against one of the pillars is a busker you had seen around that part of town a few times before but could never pin a name on. He wore an oversize suede suit as poorly as you would expect from the kind of busker still plying in the middle of a storm. You watch for a tick as he works a surgery on his quaint little string instrument. You couldn't pin a name on that, either.

There's a silence now, aside from the wind and the rain which is hardly fair to count. Without walls to separate inside from out, the rich scent of the weather, tinged metallic as ever, flows freely through the cafe just as the scent of coffee would on a busier, drier morning. You breathe deep with lungs that finally allow it, then realize everyone is waiting for you to say something.

"What?"

You're surprised to hear Vela's voice next, cutting the wheels from Saku just as he had opened his mouth to undoubtedly say something sharp.

"Certain you're good to go? If you head back to Ido's with so much as a scratch on you he'll chain you to the bed."

For obvious reasons you had kept Ido in the dark about today's little scrimmage. You weren't exactly fully recovered from your injuries, and even that didn't much matter anyway. You'd be drawing dead looking for his approval to get back on the track.

"I'm good. We'll take it nice and easy today, and besides, Alita's brought plenty of extra padding to stuff me in. You could roll me out with Eiserne and the big boys tonight and I'd probably make it home in one piece, give or take."

On cue, Alita drops her gear bag to the floor like the footfall of a Centurion. A single wavering twang fills the cafe, loosed by a rather startled busker who mutters an obscenity under his breath, while the barman simply gazes over his newspaper with weary eyes. Sometimes it seemed she forgot how much power was in that body of hers.

With another brief lull, Saku rises to his feet and you're sure as anything he's going to take his shot. As ever, he manages to surprise you.

"Well, gang's all here. Why don't you come clean with us, man? We paid that goon a visit, guy with the metal hand, remember? What was his name again, Vela?"

"Full House."

Saku snaps his fingers.

"That's it, Full House. I knew it was somethin' dumb. Yeah, so anyways, paid the guy a visit, roughed him up a bit, gave him the business, you know, as we do."

You exhale and sit back deep in your seat. Figures.

"I've got some stupid fucking friends."

"Hey, I ain't sayin' that's not the case. But the poor guy had to get a new hand on my account and I just want to know if there was a reason for it. That's all."

You loved Saku and Vela like siblings, but they had a thuggish side to them you knew Alita despised. One of these days they'd push too far and get themselves marked. Alita has a look in her eyes like she's counting the days, and you decide for Saku's sake to end this conversation quickly. That'd be a first.

"I told you that guy had nothing to do with it, you dope."

"You also told us a little tumble off the highrail broke half the bones in your body, so forgive me if I don't see much truth in any of it."

The busker in the cheap suede starts strumming his strings and whistles like he expects a fight to break out. He didn't know you two well enough. This was Tuesday casual.

"I'll admit I fed you a line on that one. And it wasn't my best work."

"No shit."

"Are you two done?"

For the first time in a strange while, Alita speaks, and all the ears that had tuned out your spat with Saku suddenly stand at attention. Even the barman is looking past his paper.

"I took him out. Eiserne got me clean and I lost my cool."

As she says it, it sounds even to you like the biggest lie of all. Saku looks at Alita, then back to you with such a look of incredulity it's hard not to laugh.

"She took you out? She did?"

"Whiffed on the killshot and cracked me crossfire in the ribs. That's how it happened, man. It's Motorball."

Thinking two steps ahead, you ready yourself to tackle Alita in case Saku's next words set her charging at him.

But there's nothing. Nothing but rain and wind that blows the tension right out into the plaza. Vela sucks air through gritted teeth in silent sympathy. A pensive scowl contorts Eiserne's face as if to say, "yeah, that makes sense". One of these days she'll forget her own name after a race. And Saku...

"Well, shit. Should have said so in the first place. Vela, you still got that guy's hand, Big House or whatever?"

"Full House. And yeah, it's back at my place. Couldn't rope a buyer."

"I'd say we ought to return it before the match tonight. Might even bring flowers."

You were damn lucky to have friends who made it this easy to clear the air. Otherwise you'd have all killed each other a long time ago.

The one now closest to murder, surprisingly, is Alita. After Greaser calls everyone out to the track, you hang back to have a word with her. The feral look is back.

"I hate him."

"I do too, most of the time. But he's close enough to family that I take the bad with the good."

She clenches her fists tight enough to crush stone.

"And what's the good?"

"He's a bit like you. Reliable."

You thought to let the words marinate, but Alita's lip begins to arch in a way that compels you to explain yourself, fast.

"Okay, look, I know he's rough around the edges, I know that. There are things he and Vela get up to that make my stomach turn, things that'll probably get them both killed some day."

"Have they ever tried to involve you?"

"Never, not once. Not me, not Eiserne, not Greaser. They do what they do because it's all they've ever known, and it's kept them going this long."

"If you're trying to explain what Saku and I have in common, you aren't doing a very good job of it."

Your eyes flit about the cafe as if the words you seek are etched somewhere in the stonework.

"If not for him, I wouldn't be alive. That kind of reliable."

The disgust drains from her face in an instant, replaced by something halfway between surprise and curiosity.

"Sounds like a story."

"It is. Ask him about it sometime."

You give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before skipping off into the storm.


	5. Chapter 5

Two corner pipes with the lazy slope Eiserne hates and a single central rail block stocky enough to clear in a bound on a bum leg—Greaser has the kid gloves on and you can't help but feel a touch patronized. Then again, you don't feel patronized one bit as Alita straps the extra padding in place with motherly concern, so you know you're just being petty and playing favorites.

"Everything feel tight? They didn't have elbow braces in your size so I had to go one smaller."

"Any tighter and it'd be a tourniquet."

"Do you want me to loosen it?"

"That was a joke."

"I know it was. Do you want me to loosen it?"

"Yeah."

The barbershop eave provides little cover from the elements, but it keeps the rain out of everyone's eyes long enough to gear up. Feeling unusually competitive, you size your rivals up. Greaser and Alita you discard right away—he has a designer's brain and is always more interested in working new lines through the track than actually playing Motorball, while she isn't likely to leave your side for a moment once the match begins.

Vela leans against the wall with one leg propped up, tinkering away at the old metallic arm Alita always asks about and you always lie about. It's a depreciated design—poorly-sheathed electrical systems and some persistent circulation issues—but Vela never stops bragging about the modular forearm mounts. Besides, acquiring it nearly got her marked for death and that must carry some serious sentimental value. She doesn't have the shatterblade attachment on today so you aren't too worried.

Eiserne's a different story. The blurb on her Motorball trading card—"when the lights go green, she sees red"—isn't just catchy marketing. And it was already bad enough before she plugged into a state-of-the-art machine body; one reflexive swing from that lead-pipe left and you'll be hung up at Ido's for another month. Doc won't even need the chains.

Your eyes must be speaking concern in that language only lifelong friends can decipher. As Alita gives your skates a once-over, Saku taps your shoulder and cocks his head in Eiserne's direction.

"First streetball match since going pro. Figure she remembers how to roll easy?"

"I don't think she ever knew."

"You'll change your tune when you see her under the lights. She's turnin' guys to dust out there."

"Just the kind of thing I wanted to hear right now. Thanks, Saku."

"Hey."

He leans in close.

"I chatted her up this morning. She's good, she's cool. Gonna lay back and let us chumps go at it. You know, kiss the rail and all that lame shit you usually do."

You send him off with a shove, playful but hard enough to let him know you resent the comment, however truthful it may be. Unlike Greaser, you have at least a passing interest in the competitive aspect of Motorball—you just don't have the skill, nor the physique, to keep up. Hardbodies always win, even on the street. What's wrong with some clean technical grindwork, anyway?

Alita gives the motor housing on your skate a hard slap and rises to her feet. Only now do you notice how quiet she's been.

"Trying to figure him out, aren't you?"

"I don't know why you put up with it."

"All part of the charm."

***

Greaser starts the match with his customary shout just as a few weak rays of sunlight begin peeking out from behind the clouds. His scoring chamber is on the fritz again, so Alita brings the ball into play rather crudely with an underhand toss into the first corner. You've never known a street Motorball crew with good equipment and this one is no exception.

The opening moments play out as you had expected: Saku, Vela, and yourself jump ahead in pursuit of the ball, with Alita trailing close behind. Greaser immediately makes a lazy turn for the center rail while Eiserne, true to her word, doesn't seem to be doing much of anything at all. You recall that her next pro match is tonight and hope she can manage to have a little fun at least.

Vela is first to the ball, snatching it up with her strong hand while deftly avoiding Saku's flailing forearm. She cuts a quick half-circle with her right foot and attacks the first corner in reverse, partially for defensive purposes but mainly to give Saku a full view of her teasing expression.

"Getcha every time!"

You slip ahead into second as Saku struggles to regain his balance. He always goes for the early shiver and everyone knows it but him.

The banks are too shallow to stage an attack from afar, so you run a high line and look to build as much speed as possible for the following corner; Vela is sharp on her wheels, but not sharp enough to outpace you backwards. Running smooth on exit, you begin to close the distance.

"Not bad at all! Looks like you've got you legs back, at least!"

Still sailing blind, she begins to sway serpentine down the straight, angling so deep that water and sparks flare up in equal measure with every violent shift. You quickly realize you're now carrying too much speed, but your wheels catch slick as you try to throw on the brakes. Too late to match her maneuver, there's nothing left to do but try your luck on the pass. This is your day and you'll be damned if anyone else is scoring first.

Just as you ready for the strike, Alita veers out from behind you and shoots forward with the kind of burst only she can summon. The two of you bear down on Vela, who looks now like she very much regrets slowing up.

"Typical!"

Alita moves in with a low feint and lands a lightning-quick blow to the body that sets Vela wobbling. A fraction of a second later you dispossess her with a well-placed palm strike. The Motorball launches ahead into the second corner and you take off after it without missing a beat. Street rules are loose and a little cheap teamplay isn't against them anyway.

Much lighter than the regulation eighty-eights made to be hauled by purpose-built machine bodies, Greaser's scuffed old meatball still has enough heft in it to send a twinge through your tender elbow as you scoop it up. Painful as it is, you grit your teeth and tuck the ball tight under your arm; the other one has to play defense and you'll need all the mobility you can get when Vela catches back up. Which she will, now properly pissed off.

"Hey Saku! Alita says it's teams today!"

Saku's response doesn't register through the wooden rumble of turn two, but a quick glance back tells you they've struck an accord. Not a problem — teams suit you just fine.

Without a working scoring chamber to dunk the ball into for points, the match is operating under a pro-style system based on possession at the start line. You feel a bit robbed of a triumphant moment as you complete the lap and record your first Motorball point in a good long while. Ahead and uninjured, it isn't a bad time to cash in and hand the ball off to Alita, but you're feeling sporty today and elect to try for more.

Rolling light and low into the turn one banking, you take another quick look around. Alita shadows you, while Vela and Saku have linked up side-by-side and appear to be closing in. Greaser is well back by the central rail block, while Eiserne...

"Alita! Where'd Eiserne get to?"

"I don't know! Haven't seen her since we started!"

It wouldn't be a great surprise if she has ducked out entirely; she'll be facing death on the track tonight and a bit of neutered streetball can't do much to set the proper mentality. Or she could be hiding in wait beyond the farside pipe for a chance to send you through the barbershop window. You never know with Eiserne.

Too much thinking. A piercing metallic clash reverberates throughout the plaza as Alita and Vela come together sooner than expected—Saku must have slung her out of the corner. They grapple for a moment before Vela threads a skate between Alita's legs and jerks wildly, sending both of them tumbling off-course. You've lost your bodyguard, just as they had planned. And you're only a little bit bitter Alita played nice and let it happen.

"Deck's clear, my man! Let's see what you've got!"

Saku's pumping hard in pursuit and you strain to match him, but there's no doubt fatigue is starting to set in. All those weeks laid up in bed did a number on you legs and you know you're running out of gas. One more point, you say to yourself. One more.

You know enough about Motorball to know cutting too high a line on dead wheels is asking for trouble, even on these soft slopes; getting launched from twenty feet was going to do more damage than Saku ever would, so you run sensibly along the bottom and brace for his attack.

He bombs out of the corner weaving this way and that, trying to keep you guessing. Too sore and too stiff to track him over either shoulder, you stumble out a half-spin in ugly pantomime of Vela's earlier move. Saku doesn't have too many tricks in his bag but they're all good enough to tag you at this point.

"You ever score two points in a match before, Saku?"

Talking trash doesn't make a damn bit of sense right now and you don't care; you never were good at pushing his buttons anyway. As long as you keep a firm grip on the Motorball he can't stop you from crossing the line. And though he has, in fact, scored two points in a match before, you haven't.

The taunt doesn't seem to have any effect—either that or you're getting loopy and never said it in the first place. Saku straightens his skates and tucks down into a compact stance, arm cocked back with all the menace of a rocket hammer. Instead of raising your own in defense, you wrap it around the Motorball and brace yourself.

You hit the line, he hits you, and something hits him—that's the order to it but it may as well be simultaneous. Your hard plastic wheels warble as they shudder out of traction; Saku's blow isn't sufficient to dislodge the ball but it does knock you off balance beyond the point where your tired legs can recover. Time slows again, just as it did in the canal all those weeks ago. As your body skids off track towards the cafe you feel every hit against the concrete, waiting on each for a snap of tendon or crack of bone to put a great big spoil on the day.

It never comes. You slide to a stop at the feet of the suede-clad busker, who regards you with withering eyes and plays a swift ditty in mockery. From the ground you toss him a few credits with one of two still-good arms and try not to laugh at the absurdity of the scene. The rain has stopped entirely and there's Eiserne in the cafe eating a parfait and your race is over and you've got two points, which makes you the winner regardless of whatever the hell else is going on.

Alita arrives just as you rise to your feet, while a grimacing Saku lags behind rubbing the sore out of his shoulder. The scene at the line plays out in your head, and the missing piece falls neatly into place.

"She didn't kill you, did she?"

"Near enough. Hell, I think she enjoyed it."

You brush yourself off, more for show than anything, but Alita wraps you tight in embrace before you can finish. Her relief washes over you in waves; the reaction strikes you as strange until you remember the gruesome manner in which your last match had ended: bloodied, broken, and near death—all on her account.

You return the embrace with every ounce of strength you can muster, and not a word need be said. The strength alone is enough.


End file.
